The younger of the two moved with less certainty than his brother. In common with the very young of many races, he walked like a small drunk, stumbling occasionally. Only when he toppled and couldn’t right himself did his brother stretch out a hand to him.
They watched as roofs were fixed, fences rebuilt and debris heaved from the well. Some greeted them with a nod or a few distracted words. Most ignored them. Their offers to help were dismissed with gruff laughter or sharp words. They were resigned to staring.
“There you are!”
They turned at the sound of the familiar and not altogether welcome voice, and saw the clan’s chief, Quoll, sweeping their way. He was still big and powerfully built, despite his advancing years, and seemed incredibly ancient to them. Festooned with the armlets, bangles and leopard-tooth necklaces signifying his position, he was accompanied by his usual entourage of kin and dogsbodies.
He stood over the hatchlings, his followers looking on. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Right here,” Corb told him.
“You’re the oldest. It’s your duty to look after your brother.”
“He does!” Janch protested.
Quoll fixed him with an icy gaze, which to the youngster’s credit he held and tried, less successfully, to return. “Judging by the state you’re both in I’m not sure about that. What have you been doing?”
“Just playing,” Corb replied casually.
“Hmmm. Getting under everybody’s feet more like.”
“No we haven’t,” Janch muttered, his eyes now on his own feet.
“The time is coming to put aside childish things,” the chieftain declared portentously. “What with your parents lost and-”
“They’re not!” Corb protested.
“Not this again. Listen to me, both of you. Part of growing up is learning to accept what the gods have in store for us. You have to resign yourself to them being gone.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s the truth, Corb. You must come to terms with it.”
“ No. They’re not dead. I know they’re not. Don’t care what you say.”
“ How do you know?”
“They’re great warriors. Nobody could kill them. I just… feel it.” Janch nodded vigorously in agreement.
Quoll sighed, and his forceful tone softened a little. “Yes, Stryke showed his valour many times; and Thirzarr matched him in bravery and skill. Look at the price paid by the force that took her. But look too at the commander of that force, the witch.”
Corb and Janch shuddered inwardly, remembering the stories their mother told about the witch, and the raid that confirmed them.
Quoll himself recalled the ferocity of her attack, but stayed master of his emotions. And he resolved not to criticise Stryke in front of the hatchlings, though he half blamed their father for bringing near ruin on them all. “Going against a power like hers is pissing into a gale,” he continued, “even for an orc. I admire your loyalty to your parents, and your faith in them. But it’s best not to rely too much on hope.”
“What about Wheam?” Janch piped up.
The chieftain held his steadfast expression, no matter what was going on inside. “I have to suppose that my son is lost too. He was a disappointment to me. My wish is that he met his end with some dignity, and courage, as an orc should.” He had spoken in a kind of mild reverie, avoiding their eyes. Now his clarity returned and he looked to them. “Face it. Stryke and Thirzarr are probably dead, thanks to the witch.”
She was no witch. She was a sorceress, and resented being thought of otherwise. And Jennesta’s resentment was not to be stirred up lightly.
She stood on a beach on a world unimaginably distant from Ceragan. Night was falling and the moons were beginning to appear. Not that she was in any way softened by the sight.
A figure approached. She recognised it as her latest aide, a major whose name she had already forgotten. He was another field promotion, his predecessor having been killed earlier in the day. This replacement was a younger man, and moderately bright for a human, but she saw little in the way of a future for him. He came to her with eyes averted and an uncertain step.
She didn’t wait for him to begin his no doubt stumbling report. “How are they?”
“They seem to have settled, my lady.”
“Not too much, I hope. I need their ferocity as well as their obedience.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look uncertain, Major.”
“Well, my lady, they… they’re a little… troublesome.”
“I’d expect them to be. Though more to my enemies than us. Come.” She turned and strode towards the island’s heart, her aide following at a safe distance.
They came to a makeshift camp. Like youngsters caught in mischief her troops quickly turned solemn when they saw her, and presented themselves stiffly. She ignored them and swept past. Her goal was at the centre of the camp, adjacent to her own tent.
Several large wooden cages stood there. They were well built, and by necessity robust. Guards were posted all around them. Two or three of Jennesta’s zombie servants were present. Trusted with simple tasks, they were pushing hunks of meat and water jugs through the slats. The captives stared at the offerings but showed scant interest in eating or drinking. Most of them were standing motionless. A few crouched in the dirt with vacant gazes, and one or two shuffled aimlessly. They came more to life, of a sort, when they noticed Jennesta approaching.
A kind of roar went up from them, part frustration, part fury, but strangely distorted, as though it should have been less muted. They became agitated, after a fashion, and moved to rattle the bars of their cages, still howling.
Jennesta raised her arms. “ Silence!”
They instantly quietened. But they obeyed without exactly being cowed, and close scrutiny might have shown a tiny hint of something like defiance in their eyes.
“Good,” she said, studying them. “They look promising.”
“Promising, ma’am?” the major ventured, shooting a nervous glance at the cage’s occupants.
“I need their fire,” she explained. “But there also has to be submission to my will. It’s a balance.”
“May I ask what use these creatures will be put to, my lady?”
“Initially, revenge,” she replied, ignoring his impertinence in querying her. “I’ve been exiled from the Peczan empire because of those terrorists in Acurial, and the Wolverines played their part in that. But it was an ill wind that’s brought me nearer to attaining my goal. There’ll be a reckoning the next time I encounter that wretched warband.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but if we’re to engage with them again we might have to consider the level of our forces. Not a few have fallen in your service. Today alone we lost-”
“I’m aware of that,” she informed him icily, and embedded in her tone was the inference that she didn’t particularly care. “But here, in front of you, is a beginning; the reinforcements to swell our ranks, more pliable and much more ferocious than those sorry efforts.” She indicated the trio of once human zombies milling near the cages.
One of them was Kapple Hacher, formerly a man of power and influence who had made the mistake of inviting Jennesta’s anger. Her contempt seemed to faintly register with him. There was the merest flicker of recognition, an echo of the dissent in the captives’ eyes. It went unnoticed.
“We’re leaving here. Now,” she announced abruptly. “Issue the orders.”
“Ma’am. And the Wolverines?” the major asked.
She glanced towards her grand tent. Its flaps were open. Inside, sitting in plain view, was Stryke’s mate, Thirzarr. Her bearing was rigid and her expression was vacant.
“The Wolverines will come to me,” Jennesta said. “And they won’t be alone.”
Pelli Madayar was in a dilemma, and plagued with uncertainty. The dilemma was how best to act in what was an increasingly complex situation. The uncertainty came from questioning her own abilities.
She was at the rail of her ship, the many races of the Gateway Corps unit busy around her. Her second-in-command, Weevan-Jirst, stood by her side.